* * *
The engines changepitch as we start our descent, and I’m still staring at my phone. I’ve texted Q two more times, and he’s read both of them, but hasn’t responded. Worry makes my shoulders ache—though hiking more than ten kilometers carrying fifty pounds of gear didn’t help.
The city comes into view, and the device in my ear beeps. “Base to Alpha Team. Ry? Is Graham on comms?” Wren’s stressed, her voice tight, the all-business tone she adopts for missions gone. And she used our names.
I sit up straight. “I’m here, Wren. What’s wrong?”
“Cam called me a few minutes ago. That motion sensor you left at the warehouse? It was tampered with. Deliberately.”
“Fuck me.” My phone slips out of my hands, and I scramble to pick it up and unlock it so I can text Q again when I hear Ripper’s voice.
“There’s more. Alec Harrow. Took too long to find his name because Quinton Silver didn’t file the restraining order. Quinton Davis did. Then legally changed his name to Quinton Silver a week later. The affidavit states Harrow messed with Quinton’s prescribed medication daily for a period of at least eight weeks after an accident that left him unable to walk. The tox screen performed at the Fort Worth ER on the day Quintonescapedfrom Harrow’scare? Scopolamine, temazepam, Oxy, Valium…” Ripper clears his throat. “Wren…I can’t…”
“Rip. Brother, meet me on the private channel,” Ry says sharply. “West…?”
“Yeah. Go.” West unbuckles his seat belt and slides across the aisle to sit next to me. Panic makes it hard to breathe. I need my meds and paw through my ruck in search of the little plastic box until West blocks me with an arm across my chest. “Stop. I’ll find them. Wren needs Q’s cell number so she can make sure he’s still in Seattle.”
The SEAL’s order carries weight, and I rattle off the digits without thinking. West presses my pill case into my hands, followed by a bottle of water. The Clonazepam won’t compromise my judgement, but it’ll keep me calm enough to think. Once it kicks in.
Until I hear Wren’s voice. “I can’t get a ping. Last known location was within half a mile of his place, but that was last night around 6:00 p.m.”
The plane touches down, and within two minutes, we’re in an SUV, West behind the wheel, Inara on the phone to RoyceandCam, trying to access Q’s security system remotely.
“He customized the hell out of this thing,” Cam mutters over the speaker. “Your man’s a fucking genius.”
He is. All I can do is stare at the picture of him on that park bench and pray he just forgot to charge his phone. But I know better. He’dneverforget. It’s his lifeline.
“I’m hacking into the traffic cameras within four blocks of his last known location now,” Wren says. “The city of Seattle just upgraded their system last week, so it’s going to take me fifteen or twenty minutes.”
We’re only five minutes away from Q’s house, and he still hasn’t responded to any of my texts.
Ryker—sitting in the third row seat—pulls up the floorboard, withdraws a metal ammo box, and pries it open. “Live rounds. Load ‘em up. Now. Pistols only. It’s the middle of the goddamn morning, and if anyone calls us in, we’re fucked.”
I’m out of the SUV before it even stops moving. “Q?” Pounding on the door and ringing the bell at the same time, I already know. He’s not going to answer me. I just don’t know why. Is he injured? Lying on the floor unable to get up? Or—?
“Probie? You’re with me. Around back,” Ry says as he strides away. “West? Breach on my mark.”
“Wait. Don’t break down the doors. Please.” I grab West’s arm. “He’s obsessive about his security. I can’t…if he’s not in there, I can’t leave his home unprotected. It would kill him.”
“You heard the man,” Ry mutters over comms. “Time to see who’s faster at picking locks.”
West already has tools in hand while Inara and I take up positions on each side of the door, weapons at the ready. In under a minute, both doors pop open. “Beta team, go high,” Ry says quietly, and as I take the stairs two at a time, Ryker sweeps through the kitchen.
Q’s bedroom is pristine—as usual. The bed’s made, and his toothbrush is dry as a bone. He hasn’t been here in at least twelve hours.
“Clear,” West calls from the second bedroom.
“What the fuck? Graham, get your ass down here.” Ryker’s voice carries an odd tone, and I holster my weapon and head for the stairs. Inara, just ahead of me, starts laughing, and I can’t think of a single fucking thing that could possibly be funny in this situation.
Until I reach the landing. Ry stands on the other side of the couch, weapon drawn and pointed at the floor, all six-foot-eleven inches of him perfectly still as a little orange ball of fur clings to his tactical vest, meowing plaintively.
“Alpha Team, what the fudgecicles is going on?” Wren asks in my ear.
West almost doubles over with his own rich laughter, pulls out his phone, and snaps a picture. “Check your phone, Base.”
“Fudgecicles?” Raelynn asks. “Is this some kind of code y’all forgot to teach me?”
“Wren gets creative with her cursing,” Inara replies.
